BORN FROM ABOVE

Second Sunday in the Midst of Lent

TEXTS:  John 3:1-17

Nicodemus said to [Jesus], “How can a man be born when he is old? Can he enter a second time into his mother’s womb and be born?” Jesus answered, “Truly, truly, I say to you, unless one is born of water and the Spirit, he cannot enter the kingdom of God. That which is born of the flesh is flesh, and that which is born of the Spirit is spirit. Do not marvel that I said to you, ‘You must be born again.'” (John 3:4-7)

A friend of mine who has known me for years—decades, actually—likes to refer to me as “a Winnipeg boy.”

Usually, she’s laughing when she says this. She’s laughing because when she says that—when she calls me “a Winnipeg boy”—it’s because I’m doing something that betrays my origins: 

  • Like repairing and patching an old winter coat again and again, instead of buying a new one.
  • Like never turning down a free meal, and always finishing it—even if it’s awful—because it’s free!
  • Or like inserting random words of Yiddish into a conversation. Oy vey!

She also says that—even after all these years—when I speak, I retain some trace of a “North-End Winnipeg accent” … whatever that is!

Of course, what she really means when she calls me “a Winnipeg boy” is that I’m a north Winnipeg boy—and my mannerisms and attitudes and speech have been to some degree shaped by the time and place where I grew up.

Yes, I am a Winnipeg boy, born and raised. And the place of my birth has, I guess, put its stamp upon me—and upon my friend, too, for she, if she is anything, is “a Winnipeg girl.”

Even so, neither one of us is exactly the same as we were 50 years ago, when we met in high school. We want different things now. We believe different things now. And neither one of us has ended up where we thought we were going, all those years ago.

Place of birth may have some significance, but that by itself does not finally determine what our lives are going to be like.

It would not be much of an exaggeration to say that half of the kids I grew up with have either been in prison, or should have been! But the other half …

Well, they didn’t do so badly. There’s a doctor, a rabbi, and even a couple of lawyers in that bunch.

We all grew up within a few blocks of one another, but we took different paths. So I have to wonder how much of an effect my birthplace has actually had on who I am today.

Jesus, I think, would get this. He was born in Bethlehem, and the Bible tells us he spent some years in Egypt as a young child—and after he grew up, he was known as “Jesus of Nazareth.”

Even so, he does not seem to have attached a whole lot of importance to any of that personal history.

If Jesus ever told stories about his own childhood, or related charming anecdotes about life as a carpenter’s son in Galilee … well, none of that ever found its way into the gospel accounts. It’s as if he never talked about that stuff.

However, he spoke often about how one’s spiritual birth is far more important than one’s physical birth.

“You must be born from above,” he said. Or, in the perhaps more familiar King James English: “Ye must be born again.”

In today’s gospel reading we see that—late one night in Jerusalem—his words caused great consternation to a man called Nicodemus.

Nicodemus, one of the respected leaders of the Pharisees, has come to Jesus with a sort of hesitant curiosity. Yet, when he meets Jesus, Nicodemus doesn’t even ask a question at first. He simply remarks that Jesus has obviously been sent by God.

Then Jesus makes this odd comment. He says, “Very truly I tell you, no one can see the kingdom of God without being born from above.”

Well, we’ve heard that said before, haven’t we? Most often, we’ve heard the phrase translated as born again. “You must be born again.”

Apparently, the Greek phrase in the original text could mean that. Or it could mean, “You must be born anew.”

But, basically, the Greek means “born from above.” At least, that’s what the Greek scholars say. You must be born from above, which includes, of course, the necessity that you’re going to have to be born again.

Now when we hear that kind of talk, many of us imagine big evangelistic crusades and well-orchestrated, sentimental altar calls.

We may think of quick and shallow religious experiences—or even a sleazy kind of religious hucksterism. And so, we dismiss the term.

Really, that’s a shame. Because what Jesus is talking about here might just be the most important discipline of the Christian life. He’s talking about defining our identity not by earthly standards, but by spiritual standards: “The one who is in Christ is a new creation,” as the apostle Paul said (2 Cor. 5:17).

Jesus wants us to be born entirely anew—born “from above” with our identities shaped by something other than who our ancestors were or where we are from.

Why? Because Jesus has something much greater in store for us! That “something greater” is so grand that it’s hard to define, and so Jesus calls it being “born from above,” or being “born of the Spirit.”

“The wind blows where it chooses,” Jesus says, “and you hear the sound of it, but you do not know where it comes from or where it goes. So it is with everyone who is born of the Spirit.”

You must be born of the Spirit, born from above—born again. Now when people talk about “born again” Christians, they are usually speaking about a specific type of Christian.

However, to me, the phrase “born again Christian” sounds like two descriptions of the same thing. It’s like saying “a round wheel” or “an orange orange.”

If you are a Christian in the first place, then you are “born again,” or “born from above.”

If you are “in Christ,” then you are reborn of and into the Spirit of God.

Today, the typical meaning of “born again” has to do with “getting saved,” and “getting saved” means entrance into Heaven.

That’s what many people think, when they think about salvation.

They think of being “born again” as something that is a one-time event, a moment in time when a person accepts Christ—and then, that’s it! It is done and over with. You’ve paid your admission, you’ve got your ticket, you get into the big show.

Now, there is a sense in which that’s true—because once you’ve put your immortal soul in the hands of God, he is not going to drop you.

But let’s look a little deeper than that.

The Greek word that is used in John … Yeah. The Greek word.

I am not any kind of Greek scholar, but I do have access to folks who are. And they tell me that the Greek word John uses is anthen, which does mean “reborn” or “born from above” or “born of the Spirit.”

However, this term does not signify a once-in-a-lifetime moment, but rather a lifelong journey of renewal and discovery. The journey begins the moment that you accept Christ, but the journey goes on from there for the rest of your days.

In other words, we don’t remain spiritual babies. We grow in our faith, if it is genuine. We mature in our relationship with God.

This is what the Lord desires for us: not that we should remain infants, but that we should grow—every day—a little deeper and stronger in the Lord.

It isn’t a once-in-a-lifetime thing. I think this is what Paul was trying to get at when—in both his letters to the Corinthians—he talked about how we are being saved.*

Personally, I consider myself as having been “born again” many times in my life. And the Bible verse I most often remember speaking to me at such times is this one:  “The wind blows where it chooses.”

For me, at least, listening for that wind is one of the great disciplines of the Christian life. Awaiting the opportunity to be born again is one of the great disciplines of the Christian life. Perhaps it should be one of our disciplines during this season of Lent.

On a Sunday morning, if I were to take a poll of any Canadian congregation, I think we’d hear people say they were born in all kinds of different places: Winnipeg, Newfoundland, England … even wild, far-off places like Saskatchewan!

But, as Christians, we are citizens of another place. We call it “the kingdom of God.”

Have you been born again? Have you been born from above? I hope so. I hope you have been born again. In fact, I hope you have been born again and again and again.

Every time we allow ourselves to be caught up in the wind of God—in the Spirit of God—we let go of our earthly bonds, and we awaken to a new identity … one of grace, and one of power. A new identity in Christ.

In a little while,” Jesus said, “the world will no longer see me, but you will see me; because I live, you also will live” (John 14:19).

“Because I live, you also will live.”

Because Jesus lives, we can face tomorrow.

Because he lives, we can face tomorrow without fear.

Because we know he holds the future, life is worth the living!

Do you know the song?

 

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oPW9xYEyijQ

 

________________________

* 1 Corinthians 1:18; 15:2 and 2 Cor. 2:15

FASTING AND FEASTING

First Sunday in the Midst of Lent

TEXT: Matthew 4:1-11

Then Jesus was led up by the Spirit into the wilderness to be tempted by the devil. He fasted for forty days and forty nights, and afterwards he was famished. The tempter came and said to him, “If you are the Son of God, command these stones to become loaves of bread.”  (Matthew 4:1-3)

So here we are, once again, at the start of the Lenten season, which began this past Wednesday. Lent has 40 days, not counting the Sundays. Forty days of fun in the sun!

Well, not exactly. As you may know, Lent is modeled after the 40 days and 40 nights Jesus spent in “the wilderness”—that is, in the barren, sun-baked desert of Judea. And by the way, this desert—which lies just east of Jerusalem and descends to the Dead Sea—wasn’t really all that far away or hard to get to. In fact, Bethlehem—the town of Jesus’ birth—lies just on the western edge of it. All the while he was out there starving and sunburned, he was probably less than a day’s journey on foot from the nearest settlement.

I think that makes Jesus’ determination even more impressive. The only desert I’ve seen with my own eyes is in Red Rock Canyon in Nevada. It is dry there—and it is barren, and it is sizzling hot! Average temperatures during the summer exceed 95 degrees on the Fahrenheit scale, which is the only one they use down south. When I was there, even “Mojave Max” the desert tortoise was hiding from the sun.

But it’s close enough to civilization that—even while you’re wandering in the sand amongst the Joshua trees and the yucca plants—you can see the Las Vegas strip off in the distance. And that, by itself, would cut short any kind of desert experience of mine!

Never mind spending 40 days there … if my feet hit the desert floor at sunrise, I’m sure I would be heading back into the city before noonday, looking for an air-conditioned convenience store and a Slushie machine.

Not many of us would willingly endure the kind of tortuous vision quest that Jesus undertook in the Judean wilderness. Perhaps that explains why the season of Lent is not embraced with more enthusiasm. We think Lent is all about … well, misery! Fasting. Sacrifice. Suffering. Meditating upon grim realities like, “you are dust, and to dust you shall return.” (Genesis 3:19)

Yeah. Not exactly a festive time, Lent. And yet, there’s a flip side to the season—one we seldom think about. A flip side that’s alluded to in a Lenten Litany which calls us to:

  • Fast from fear; feast on faith.
  • Fast from despair; feed on hope.
  • Fast from discontent; feast on gratitude.

And so on, like that. It was written by the American pastor William Arthur Ward (1921-1994). The complete text* was posted on my office door during one Lenten season a few years ago. Besides the parts quoted above, it includes advice like:

  • Fast from thoughts of illness; feast on the healing power of God.
  • Fast from pessimism; feast on optimism.
  • Fast from complaining; feast on appreciation.
  • Fast from personal anxiety; feast on eternal hope.
  • Fast from thoughts of weakness; feast on promises that inspire.
  • Fast from problems that overwhelm; feast on prayer that undergirds.

Ward’s litany makes the point that Lent is as much about feasting as it is about fasting. Back in that biblical desert, Jesus chose to fast from some things and feast on others. Did you notice that Jesus countered each of the devil’s temptations with Scripture?

  • “One does not live by bread alone, but by every word that comes from the mouth of God.” (Deut. 8:3)
  • “Do not put the Lord your God to the test.” (Deut. 6:16)
  • “Worship the Lord your God, and serve only him.” (Deut. 6:13)

Those quotations are all from the Book of Deuteronomy—chapter six and chapter eight. Jesus might have been fasting from physical nourishment, but he was feasting on the Word of God.

Just as surely as Satan understood Jesus’ divine nature, he knew what sort of wonders Jesus was capable of. He could have instantly satisfied his hunger by working a miracle: “If you are the Son of God, command these stones to become loaves of bread.”

Notice that the tempter does not make that particular suggestion until after Jesus’ 40 days of fasting are over. The ordeal is now officially concluded. So, why not seek immediate gratification? You see, just as the devil knows about Jesus’ divine nature, he also knows about his human nature. Here is a human being—a real one—who has been pushed to the limits of his endurance, almost to the brink of death.

“You did it, Jesus! Good for you! Now, why make that long journey back into town to find a bagel stand? Certainly you’ve earned the right to benefit from a little of your own magic. You’re the Son of God, for heaven’s sake! Why don’t you just turn this boulder into a nice, fresh baguette?”

Well, why not? What would it harm? Who would even know?

Here’s the thing … Over the past weeks, through Epiphany—and even farther back, through Advent and Christmas—you may have noticed that the theme of incarnation has kept popping up.

Jesus is God in human flesh. Our tradition tells us that he was fully divine and fully human. He came to live among us as one of us.

The concept is mysterious, but it reveals this truth: Jesus of Nazareth was one of us. His human-ness was as real as our own. He wasn’t God disguised as a man … he was God become man. “True God and true man,” as the church fathers used to say. This is part of what we mean when we say that humanity and divinity are reconciled in Christ. Two seemingly opposite things—the human and the divine—are united in him.

He was born as we are born. He grew from an infant into a toddler, into a child, and an adolescent, and finally an adult. He had to learn everything, just as we have to learn everything: how to feed himself, how to walk, how to talk, how to live in human society.

He had to learn a trade in order to make a living. He had the same physical limitations as we do. If he didn’t eat, he got hungry. After a hard day’s work in the carpentry shop, he was tired. If he cut himself, he would bleed.

And he had to deal with all that stuff the way any of us would. Make a sandwich. Take a nap. Put on a bandage. He was human, as weare human … and he would suffer and die, just as we suffer and die. As someone said, “When God became human, he didn’t just come for the fun stuff.”

No. Jesus came to enter fully and completely into our human life. That was the point. And it ruled out extraordinary measures when it came to his own well-being and comfort. It had to be that way. Otherwise, he would not actually have been one of us. And he could not really have been either our example or our Saviour—at least, not the kind of Saviour that he became.

So he refrained from using his divine power for his own benefit. He fasted from that—not just for 40 days in the desert, but for 30 years upon the earth.

But he also feasted.

In the desert, and on the hillside, and in the streets of countless Palestinian towns, and in Jerusalem itself, he feasted. He feasted upon the same sources of comfort—and power—available to all the rest of us. Scripture, to be sure. But also prayer, and contemplation.

And community. Don’t forget that. He surrounded himself with all the wrong sorts of people—tax collectors and prostitutes, rough fishermen and lepers and all manner of misfits and underdogs. Wild beasts in the desert. Not exactly the movers and shakers of his society—but that is where Jesus found his community, and from these ordinary people he drew inspiration and strength and encouragement and purpose.

Just as, in the desert, Jesus chose to fast from his power as the Son of God and feast upon his faith in God, so also—for the duration of his public ministry, from the Jordan River to Calvary’s hill—he fasted from concern for himself and feasted upon service to others.

He used his power not to raise an army and bring Rome to its knees, but instead to raise up the downtrodden, and extend compassion to the last and the lost and the least. And he did all this not by remote control from a throne up in heaven beyond the clouds, but as a humble, travelling rabbi walking the dusty roads of a defeated and occupied country.

I think that Lent ought to draw our attention to all of that—and not just to those 40 days in the desert. Jesus was not some kind of ivory-tower thinker, or reclusive philosopher. No. He was a teacher who called disciples to follow him. And the disciple, you must realize, is someone who is being trained to become just like the teacher.

Those of you who’ve seen those “NOOMA” videos that were popular a few years back may remember Rob Bell talking about this. A rabbi in Jesus’ time would only accept disciples whom he believed he could effectively train. That is, the rabbi had to believe that his disciple was capable of doing what the rabbi did.

Most would-be disciples were rejected by the rabbis they approached, because they didn’t have “the right stuff.” They were judged as “not good enough.”

Rabbi Jesus, however … he seems to have had extremely low standards! The people he called to be his disciples were among the least likely candidates you could think of. No Ph.D.’s in this crowd. In fact, from the gospel accounts, it seems like they but rarely understood what Jesus was trying to teach them. And when the chips were down, they all deserted him and fled. Well, all except the women … but that’s a whole other sermon.

In the end, though, it was this same group of unlikely characters—plus a thug named Paul and a few other raw recruits—who carried on Jesus’ mission. They changed the world. Somehow, this bunch of cowards grew lion’s hearts. Somehow, this group of “C” students came to grasp the very mind of God.

How could this happen? I think it happened because, in their walk with Jesus—for one year, or two, or three, or however long it was—they experienced things which challenged them, which discomforted them, which lifted them up and cast them down, which gave them flashes of insight and scared the living daylights out of them. It was their own kind of desert sojourn.

They had left everything to follow him—this inspiring, charismatic, unconventional, infuriating, embarrassing, frightening, wonderful Jesus. And their journey with him transformed them, in spite of themselves.

I believe this is the kind of journey Lent is supposed to be, for us. Near the end of his earthly ministry, Jesus sat his disciples down and said to them: “Very truly, I tell you, the one who believes in me will also do the works that I do and, in fact, will do greater works than these …” (John 14:12).

If we believe in Jesus, we will do even greater things than he did. As hard as it may be to believe, that’s what he said. It’s hard to believe—but it’s not impossible. It’s very possible. It is possible precisely because this Jesus was as human as we are.

Oh, maybe we can’t walk on water or raise the dead … at least, not yet. Most preachers can’t even keep people awake through a sermon! But the truly great works that Jesus did—like loving his neighbours, and extending forgiveness, and saying “no” to self-interest and abuse of power and exploitation of the weak … We can learn to do this. We can learn to respond in love, instead of fear. We can become willing to sacrifice ourselves for others; to lay down our lives out of love for our friends … and even our enemies.

It’s possible. It’s not easy—but it is quite possible—for ordinary mortals to do these “greater works.”

It’s possible because an ordinary mortal who was born in a cattle shed to an unwed mother, who became a refugee in his earliest years, and who spent a significant chunk of his life as a homeless person with “nowhere to lay his head” (Matt. 8:20) did it before us. And he wants us to believe that if he could do it, we can do it, too.

Part of getting there—of arriving at that place where we can do “greater works”—has to do with what we choose to feast on. And what we choose to fast from.

So, as you walk your Lenten path—through desert places and fruitful orchards; through city streets and hospital corridors; through times of joy and times of sorrow—consider well the menu items presented to you.

During this time before Easter—these weeks leading up to a Last Supper and a trial and a cross and finally, a triumph … See if you can develop an appetite for the delicacies of heaven, more than the fast food of our western culture.

Discipleship is an acquired taste. But once you learn to appreciate it, it will sustain you through the worst of times, and set a place for you at the banquet table of God. There is no greater work. And there is no greater blessing.

__________________________________

* For the complete text of Ward’s “Lenten Litany on Fasting and Feasting” see: https://gloriadeihudson.org/documents/Fasting_and_Feasting.pdf

 

ASH WEDNESDAY

On the Imposition of Ashes

In the sweat of thy face shalt thou eat bread, till thou return unto the ground; for out of it wast thou taken: for dust thou art, and unto dust shalt thou return. (Genesis 3:19)

Many years ago—before he was executed by the Nazis—the great German theologian and pastor Dietrich Bonhoeffer said that when Jesus Christ calls a disciple, he bids that person, “Come and die.”

On this Ash Wednesday, I’ll wager, at least some of us feel as if we are being challenged to respond to that sort of call—not necessarily literally; not necessarily to answer a call to physical death. But there are lots of ways of dying—lots of things to die for, and lots of things to die to. Perhaps we are being called to die to self—to let go of ambitions, or dreams, or familiar ways of doing things. Comforts. Illusions. Harbored resentments. Cherished fears.

But I think that behind and beyond all of these calls to death, the real call is to trust. Trust in what? How about resurrection? How about new birth?

An acorn can’t become a tree by relaxing in a bucket of water inside your house. It needs to push its roots into the soil, hard and rocky though it may be. That’s where it gets its nourishment and its solid footing. It needs to be buffeted by the wind to become strong, yet flexible. It needs the cold winters to store up its energy, so it can burst into new life in the spring.

We all know that if we wrote our own life script using our own yardstick for success, we would be as spiritually anemic as a seedling growing in water. We don’t always know how a time of trial will help us grow. And we don’t need to. We only need to face it—and embrace it—with the radical trust that “all things work together for good for those who love God” (Romans 8:28). We only have to look back on our own lives to know that our greatest lessons have come through our times of greatest challenge; our depth and wisdom have come through our times of pain and loss.

Today we begin a Lenten journey that leads through the wilderness and to the cross before it reaches the empty tomb. And we begin that journey by wearing the ashes of mortality and repentance. The ashes and the journey toward the cross help us get our bearings—not only for Lent, but for our lives. They help us lift our sights beyond our own pleasure and pain so that we can discern God’s higher purpose—to devote our creativity, compassion, and courage to the reconciliation of the world to God’s truth and justice and love. They help free us from anxiously avoiding hardship and loss, and open us to God’s power to deepen and strengthen us through our trials. And the ashes and the journey help link us compassionately with all people, who like us must find their way through mortality and suffering, and through those trials discover that mysterious love from which nothing in life or death can separate us.

As we come forward to receive the ashes, to contemplate mortality, uncertainty, and the value of trial, let us ask God to show us the things that are worthy of the life he has given us, and the spirit he has created in us.

PRAYER:

Almighty God, from the dust of the earth you have created us. May these ashes be for us a sign of our mortality and penitence, and a reminder that only by your gracious gift are we given eternal life; through Jesus Christ our Saviour. Amen.

 

 

 

CONTINUITY

Transfiguration Sunday

TEXT: Matthew 17:1-9

… Jesus took with him Peter and James and his brother John and led them up a high mountain, by themselves. (Matthew 17:1)

I want to ask you a question. It’s a historical question, and those of you who are (a) Canadian; and (b) of my vintage or older … you should know the answer. Here’s the question:

What is a “Diefenbunker”?

In 1958—at the height of the Cold War, amidst widespread fear that the Soviets were going to blow us up with nuclear weapons—Canadian Prime Minister John Diefenbaker authorized the construction of about 50 “Emergency Government Headquarters” across the country. Opposition parties called them “Diefenbunkers.”

These subterranean chambers were part of what came to be known as the “Continuity of Government” plan, which was intended to shelter important political leaders in the event of a nuclear attack.  Most of these facilities were built at rural locations outside major cities.

To name just a very few, bunkers were located in:

  • Nanaimo, British Columbia;
  • Shilo, Manitoba;
  • Borden, Ontario;
  • Valcartier, Quebec;
  • Debert, Nova Scotia; and
  • Penhold, Alberta.

Each facility was protected by massively-reinforced doors at the surface. They employed state-of-the-art air filtration systems to protect against radioactive aerosols, and included storage vaults for food, fuel, fresh water, and other supplies. For the most part, they were two-story underground bunkers meant to house a few dozen people.

However, the largest bunker—by far—was built for Canadian federal politicians at Carp, Ontario, near Ottawa.  That stronghold had four levels underground, and was designed to house 535 people for up to 30 days.

It was also able to withstand a near-miss from an inter-continental ballistic missile. Incidentally, that set the Carp facility apart from all the others scattered around—well, actually, underneath—the Canadian landscape.

You see, the smaller facilities—like the one at Penhold—were only designed as fallout shelters. But the Central Emergency Government Facility at Carp … Well, that was built to withstand the blast caused by a close nuclear strike—the equivalent of five million tons of TNT exploding at about a mile away.

Over 32,000 tons of concrete and 5000 tons of reinforcing steel were used in constructing the main facility at Carp—and a broadcast transmitter station 20 miles away near Perth, Ontario. At one point during construction, over 1,000 workers were employed on the site. Completed in 1962, the Carp project alone cost $20 million—or the equivalent of about $156 million today.

And of course, American federal politicians famously maintained a similar—though much larger—complex 700 feet beneath the Greenbrier resort in White Sulphur Springs, West Virginia. That bunker—which was more like an underground city for 800 people—was designed to contain the entire United States Congress in the aftermath of a nuclear holocaust.

Somewhat of a hardship, perhaps, to have to live under the earth like a mole … but still far better than the fate of all those left above ground! And all of this was done in the name of “continuity of government.” You gotta wonder what would have been left for them to govern! Our leaders, apparently, would spare no cost to preserve a political system—even if almost all of its citizens were obliterated.

This being Transfiguration Sunday, I perceive a very great contrast. On the one hand, there are these politicians who would happily wait out Armageddon in their blast-proof catacombs. And on the other hand, we have Christ the King.

In our gospel lesson this morning, we find Jesus not in a crypt, but on a mountaintop—having, perhaps, the original “summit conference” with Moses and Elijah. And at the conclusion of it all, Jesus speaks to his disciples not of triumph or even survival—but of his own impending death:

As they were coming down the mountain, Jesus ordered them, “Tell no one about the vision until after the Son of Man has been raised from the dead.” (Matthew 17:9)

Jesus would build neither shrines on the mountaintop nor bunkers underneath it. Rather than ensure his own safety while his followers perished, this King would willingly give himself over to death so that his people could be saved. How different are the ways of God from the ways of this world!

We don’t know what Jesus, Moses, and Elijah talked about upon that mountain. But we certainly know Moses and Elijah.

Moses stands for the Law, and for a judicial approach to enforcing righteousness. As for Elijah, you may remember that he was the one who had a contest with the prophets of Baal to see whose god was the strongest. And when his God won, Elijah slaughtered the losers! (see 1 Kings 18:22-40)

Moses stands for a religious system wherein faithfulness is grounded in strict obedience to a legal code, and in keeping the community pure by punishing or expelling transgressors. Elijah stands for a religious system that upholds the honour of God by destroying God’s rivals. And war after war has been fought by those who believed that they were serving the Lord by wiping out his enemies.

Who knows what advice Jesus might have received from these two! But, ultimately, the decision about what to do next belonged to Jesus. And what did he decide? Jesus turned his face towards Jerusalem—not to destroy the enemies of God who had taken control of the religious state, but to stand firmly for truth and love and mercy … even at the cost of his own life.

There on the mountaintop—at this moment of apparent, glorious triumph—Jesus is already pointing toward, and drawing his disciples’ attention to, his impending arrest, trial, and execution.

Later—in John’s Gospel—he would say, “… when I am lifted up from the earth, [I] will draw all people to myself.”

And the gospel writer comments: “He said this to indicate the kind of death he was to die” (John 12:32-33).

Here is a very different kind of glory—starkly unlike the glory on the mountaintop, but no less brilliant. Not only at his resurrection, but also on his cross, will Jesus’ kingly glory become apparent.

Jesus is already thinking of his cross as being his throne—the seat of his royal ministry. For it is from that throne—from the cross—that he will draw all people to himself. It is as a sacrificial substitute on behalf of his people—on behalf of us—that King Jesus establishes his reign forever.

Many empires have been raised on the sacrifices of brave soldiers—and many nations have been preserved by the valour of their sons; but this cross is the one place where the King makes himself the sacrificial offering for the good of his commonwealth, so that nothing more will ever need to be offered.

On the verge of the Lenten season, we are given both a glimpse of Christ’s heavenly glory (in his Transfiguration) and a foreshadowing of the price he will pay. And at the end of the Lenten season—on Good Friday—we shall behold his glory once again … this time, revealed in suffering.

Our Saviour is not first a victim and then a victor; rather, he conquers death and sin precisely by offering himself. That is exactly how he becomes our King!

In the very event that is to all human appearances a failure and a defeat—that is, in the death of Jesus—we are introduced to a different kind of glory, a different kind of King, and a different kind of kingdom.

In Jesus, we see the glory of God, who cares neither to ensure “continuity of government” nor to preserve a religious system, but rather to save and preserve his people. And I think that this is what we ought to be reflecting upon as we make our Lenten journey, which begins this coming week on Ash Wednesday: What does it mean to live as citizens of Christ’s Kingdom?

What does it mean to follow this unexpected, unusual Messiah, who tells us that, if we would be his disciples, we must take up our crosses and follow him? If we would drink of his cup, are we prepared to taste suffering as well as ecstasy?

And what will that look like, for us? What sacrifices are we being called to make in order to preserve not a religious system, but a people? Not in order to prop up a denomination—or even to keep a building open—but to sustain the children of God? Will we venture outside the blast doors? Or will we huddle inside our bunker, hoping that the walls are strong enough? Hoping that we’re buried deep enough inside our whitewashed tomb?

If you know the gospel story, you know that—time and again—Jesus lamented the fact that the religious system of his day had forgotten its reason for being. The system had become more important than the people of God; the rules and traditions which were meant to enhance and elevate human existence had become burdens which denigrated and depreciated that life. Through his own death, Jesus sought to fulfill the requirements of that old system and usher in something new, resurrected from the ashes of what had gone before.

During Lent, we are reminded of our calling as Christians; we are called to continue the work that Jesus began. We are called “the Body of Christ”—and if we would embrace that name, we must be willing to walk the path that Jesus walked.

It is a path that demands much of us. It demands that we care as much about others as we do about ourselves. It demands that we stand up for justice—no matter the cost—and it also calls us to turn the other cheek. It calls us to love even our enemies.

It calls us out of comfort and into hardship. It leads us to the mountaintop, and back down again. It leads us by streams of quiet water, and it forces us into the tempest. It leads us into death—and then it leads us even beyond that!

To be sure, it is a difficult road, fraught with peril—but make no mistake about this: it is the path of glory, and it leads us, ultimately, to that place where all things are made new, and every tear is wiped away, and the brilliance of our God shines brighter than the sun.

There is no more favourable destination, and it offers us something far greater than mere “continuity of government.” As we walk this path, we have continuity of an infinitely better kind; for we travel with all the saints who have gone before us, and with the guidance of God’s own Spirit.

What better company could we ask for?

A CURE FOR GOSPEL HEARTBURN

A Sermon for Epiphany 6

TEXT: Matthew 5:21-37

“So when you are offering your gift at the altar, if you remember that your brother or sister has something against you, leave your gift there before the altar and go; first be reconciled to your brother or sister, and then come and offer your gift.” (Matthew 5:23-24)

Most of the time—as perhaps you’ve noticed—I try to keep my messages simple. And that’s as much for my benefit as for yours! Most of the time, I base my sermon on the gospel reading for the day; I look at what it says, and then I talk about just what that passage says, without ranging too far afield and bringing in a whole bunch of other stuff. I treat the day’s text as if it was in itself a complete meal, and I don’t order any side dishes.

Today, however, I have a problem. Today’s gospel meal calls out for a side dish or two. Today’s gospel might even give you a bad case of indigestion. So I feel like I need to offer some theological Alka-Seltzer.

Today’s sixteen verses from chapter five of Matthew are, of course, part of Jesus’ “Sermon on the Mount.” It’s a long one—stretching through three chapters of Matthew’s Gospel—and in it, he says a lot! However, because it is a sermon—and because it’s a particular type of sermon—there’s also a lot he doesn’t say.

This is one of those cases where—by taking Jesus’ words out of context—you can wind up hearing quite a different message than he intended to give. And in this case, the context that’s needed is the context of Jesus’ entire body of teachings.

So, what am I on about? What is there about today’s gospel meal that might give you heartburn?

Well, some of you probably already know. Even something as apparently benign as the Beatitudes—which begin this mountain sermon—can produce in us some embarrassing rumblings. At least, that’s the way it is for me.

For instance, when I hear “Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven,” I tend to ask myself: “Am I poor enough in spirit?” And then I’m afraid that maybe I don’t even know what that means!

Or, when I hear “blessed are the peacemakers,” I think about how weak my own commitment to peacemaking is. And then I feel guilty.

But then I remember I’m missing the point. Jesus is not setting up conditions or terms, but rather is just plain blessing people. All kinds of people. All kinds of down-and-out, extremely vulnerable, bottom-of-the-heap people.

And similarly, some of us—when we hear “if you are angry with a brother or sister, you will be liable to judgement”—our hearts sink, because we are angry with someone, and we don’t know how not to be. Maybe we even feel our anger is justified … yet here, Jesus is saying we’re like murderers!

Or—maybe some of you men can relate to this—we hear, “everyone who looks at a woman with lust has already committed adultery with her in his heart,” and we think, “Oh, man! Just thinking about it’s a sin? There’s no credit for good behaviour?”

Maybe we laugh at that, a little bit. But those of you who’ve gone through the intense pain of watching a marriage break up—of watching love die and then turn into something else—you won’t be laughing when you hear Jesus say: “anyone who divorces his wife … causes her to commit adultery; and whoever marries a divorced woman commits adultery.”

We hear Jesus say that, and it’s like a stab in the heart. Maybe you remember other things he said, like: “what God has joined together, let no one separate” (Matt. 19:6). You hear those words and you feel condemned. You hear those words and you get angry. What kind of loving God is it that says you only get one shot at happiness, and then that’s it? What kind of just God would forbid someone to leave a marriage that’s full of misery and abuse?

You see what I mean about the Alka-Seltzer? I know people—and probably, we all know people—who’ve been turned right off of religion because of passages like these. But that’s a terrible shame.

It’s a tragedy, in fact, because—if you consider the whole message of Jesus, if you take the entire body of his teaching into account—you realize that he is not speaking words of blanket condemnation.

What do I mean? Well, let’s use this adultery thing as an example. Does the Bible say that adultery is bad? Of course it does.

Jesus himself said as much in today’s gospel reading. But that’s not the only thing he says about it. We need to look at his whole message, as presented in the entire gospel record.

There’s this story in John’s Gospel (8:3-11)—I’m sure you all know it—where the good religious people drag this poor woman in front of Jesus. She had been caught in the very act of adultery. They ask Jesus what he thinks they should do with her, and they remind him, “Moses commanded us to stone such women.”

Well, you remember his reply: “Let anyone among you who is without sin be the first to throw a stone at her.”

Of course, they realize that none of them qualify. One by one, they drop their stones and quietly slink away. Now alone with the woman, Jesus asks her: “Has no one condemned you?”

“No one, sir,” she replies.

And Jesus says, “Neither do I condemn you. Go your way, and from now on do not sin again.”

No condemnation here. He simply urges her not to sin that way again, and—in a culture where an evening’s indiscretion could get you the death penalty—that’s pretty good advice! Jesus doesn’t excuse her sin, but notice this: he doesn’t condemn her, either. Even though there are solid grounds for condemning her, he chooses not to. Instead, he chooses to show mercy.

And throughout the gospels, we hear Jesus saying that this is what God is like. God—who has the right to judge us—would much rather forgive us. God prefers to show mercy.

Do you remember the story of the “prodigal son” in Luke (15:11-32)? A man had two sons. The youngest son demanded his inheritance early—which is kind of like saying he wished his father was dead! Then he blew it all on “dissolute living.” When he ran out of cash and really hit bottom, he decided he’d better go back home, apologize profusely, and see if his father would take him on as a hired servant.

But of course, when the father saw his son coming down the road, he ran to meet him, and he embraced him. The father did not even want to hear the boy’s apology. All he cared about was that his son—whom he had never stopped loving—had come home again. “That,” Jesus says, “is what God is like.”

So, when we hear provocative statements from Jesus—especially when we hear him say things that tempt us to lose heart, to lose hope, and throw in the towel on this discipleship thing—we need to remember the larger context of the Gospel. The Gospel is good news, not bad news.

Does Jesus condemn sin? Certainly, he does. But does Jesus condemn sinners? Apparently not. In fact, what he most often condemns is self-righteousness. He condemns those who think they are not sinners—those who think they are a cut above ordinary people like you and me, with all our weaknesses and poor judgment.

In fact, that’s actually what I think he’s doing in this morning’s gospel passage.

The law forbade adultery: “You shall not commit adultery.” That’s pretty clear, isn’t it?

So, on the surface of things, you might think that—as long as you managed to resist temptation—you could consider yourself far superior to those weaklings who gave in. Certainly, that was the conventional wisdom in Jesus’ day … because, after all, everybody has these feelings, right?

But what does Jesus say? He says, “everyone who looks at a woman with lust has already committed adultery with her in his heart.” Or, to paraphrase those words a bit: “If you have lust in your heart, and know what that is like, then you ought to show some compassion for people. If you really know what temptation is, and how strong it is, then you can show some pity for the person who gets overwhelmed by it.”

People in the Alcoholics Anonymous program have a saying: “You’re only one drink away from a drunk.” What that means, of course, is that—for the recovering alcoholic—relapse is a constant concern.

But it also means that, in AA, the person who does relapse—who “falls off the wagon”—is treated sympathetically, because every person in the program realizes: “Tomorrow, that could be me.”

That, I think, is the point Jesus is trying to make here, in the Sermon on the Mount. He doesn’t say murder is acceptable. But to those who would cry out for the murderer’s blood, he says: “Consider where your own anger might lead you.”

God’s love and mercy toward us are not contingent upon our good behaviour. God’s laws and commandments were given to make our human lives better—but God understands how difficult our human lives can be. He understands that because—in the person of Jesus the Christ—God lived our human life.

In Jesus—who welcomed and embraced what we might call the worst of sinners—we see what God is like. In the words of Jesus, we hear God speak. And to those who come to Jesus—having been condemned by their neighbours, perhaps even condemning themselves—these are the words he speaks: “I do not condemn you.”

Whoever you are, whatever you have done (and I truly mean whatever) God is reaching out to you, offering not only forgiveness, but also blessing, and a way forward, into newness of life. It’s a wonderful gift, and it’s offered to every person. If you haven’t yet accepted that gift, I hope you will accept it—and soon.

“God did not send the Son into the world to condemn the world, but in order that the world might be saved through him” (John 3:17).

SALT AND LIGHT

Sermon for Epiphany 5

TEXTS:  Matthew 5:13-20 and 1 Corinthians 2:1-13

“You are the salt of the earth; but if salt has lost its taste, how can its saltiness be restored? It is no longer good for anything, but is thrown out and trampled under foot.” (Matthew 5:13)

Some of the Anabaptists of the sixteenth century interpreted those words of Jesus very literally. At the end of their worship service, they would single out the Christians among them that had “lost their saltiness.” Then they would make these hapless folks lay at the threshold of the door. And then, the rest of the congregation—as they were leaving the church—would walk over them … trampling them under foot!

I don’t know how they decided who would trample and who would be trampled—and maybe I don’t want to know! But Jesus does use this imagery. He says that Christians who have lost their saltiness are … well … useless!

“You are the salt of the earth.” This is not a command or a suggestion from Jesus; it is a statement of fact. “You are the salt of the earth.” He goes on to say that we can be good salt or bad salt, but either way, we’re it!

We, the people of God, are the salt of the earth. If we fail to have the effect that salt is supposed to have, there’s no back-up plan. We are the salt of the earth.

Similarly, Jesus says: “You are the light of the world.” Again, we are it! If our light is hidden under a bushel basket, we’re just wasted light—we’re merely consuming fuel for no benefit. But we are still the only light. We are the light of the world.

Remember the beatitudes from last week’s gospel lesson? “Blessed are the poor in spirit … the meek … the merciful … the pure in heart … the peacemakers …”

Remember all of that? Well, today’s gospel lesson—especially the part about salt and light—today’s sayings form a bridge between two parts of the Sermon on the Mount. They are the link between the beatitudes and the Law.

In the beatitudes, Jesus tries to illustrate for us the kind of characteristics God really values in people; and when he speaks about us being “salt” and “light,” he’s leading us into his discussion of the Law of Israel, which takes up the rest of chapter five. Today, we heard Jesus begin that discussion by saying: “Do not think that I have come to abolish the law or the prophets; I have come not to abolish but to fulfill.”   

“You are the salt of the earth … You are the light of the world.”

Eugene Peterson translates Matthew 5:13-14 this way:

“Let me tell you why you are here. You’re here to be salt-seasoning that brings out the God-flavors of this earth. If you lose your saltiness, how will people taste godliness? You’ve lost your usefulness and will end up in the garbage. Here’s another way to put it: You’re here to be light, bringing out the God-colors in the world.” *

God is present and active in the world all the time; we know that. But we also know that God acts through us. The whole world is full of the presence of God—but if nobody is acting on that, then his presence will go unnoticed.

You know how it is with salt. The flavours in our food can be kind of muted and flat unless there’s some salt to bring them out. In just the same way, the Godliness of life will be almost undetectable unless we are living it out—boldly!

We are the salt of the earth. We are the light of the world. The purpose of our life together is to bring out the flavour, the colour, the zest of life—in other words, to bring out the Godliness of Creation.

Sometimes our saltiness will enrich the good that is already present. Sometimes it will enable the preservation of the good that might otherwise be lost. And sometimes it will sting in the open wounds of the world; a healing sting—but painful, nevertheless.

If we lose our saltiness, how will anyone taste Godliness? If we do not mourn the hurts of the world, if we are not humble, merciful and pure of heart, if we do not hunger and thirst for justice and strive for peace, how will anyone see beyond the callous, “me first,” “winner-takes-all” culture of this present day?

The Law alone—the written Word—cannot be salt for the earth. The Word must take flesh in us.

The Good News is not “fake news” and pedantic law-keeping is not life. If we continue to live without mercy, compassion, or integrity, God will not be the least bit impressed by our religious observances—or by the “lofty words” of human wisdom to which the apostle Paul referred.

And yet, Jesus says he has not come to abolish the law, but to fulfill it. The point is this: we do not fulfill the law by counting each commandment and ticking them off religiously. We fulfill the law as we live out of the mind of Christ that is being formed in us. We fulfill the law as we live in gratitude for God’s grace in us.

By all means, read the Scriptures. Every Christian ought to do that. The psalmist gives good advice when he urges us to meditate day and night on the law of the Lord (Psalm 1:2), and to contemplate the God revealed therein.

So read your Bibles, my friends. Read your Bibles! But don’t do it to memorize “proof texts” or lists of “do’s” and “don’ts” to be rigidly executed. Do it so that—as the apostle Paul said—the Holy Spirit can speak to you “in words not taught by human wisdom” (1 Cor. 2:13). Do it so that the mind of Christ may be more and more formed in you (see Philippians 2:5-6). Do it so that the life of Christ may be shown in your life—bursting forth in joyous living, in full-flavoured passion for life and compassion for all your neighbours.

By doing that, you will be living out the Law. That’s how you can be the salt of the earth. And through doing that, you will indeed become light for the world, shining God’s brilliance into the very darkest places of this earth.

Believers, remember this: “we have received not the spirit of the world, but the Spirit that is from God” (1 Cor. 2:12).

There is no greater blessing.

________________________

*(The Message Copyright © 1993, 1994, 1995, 1996, 2000, 2001, 2002 by Eugene H. Peterson)

 

 

FOOLISH WISDOM

A sermon for Epiphany 4, Year A

TEXTS: 1 Corinthians 1:18-31 and Matthew 5:1-12

Has not God made foolish the wisdom of the world? (1 Corinthians 1:20)

A Bible Study leader asked his group this question: “What would you do if you knew you only had four weeks left before Judgment Day?”

One of those present responded, “For those four weeks, I would go out into my community and proclaim the Gospel.”

“What a great answer!” the group leader said.

Another person declared, “For those four weeks, I would dedicate all of my remaining time to serving God, my family, my church, and my neighbours with a greater conviction.”

“That’s wonderful!” said the group leader.

Finally, a gentleman at the back of the room spoke up, saying: “For those four weeks, I would go and stay at my mother-in-law’s house.”

“Why your mother-in-law’s house?”

“Because that would make it the longest four weeks of my life!

There’s a school of thought about sermons … one which recommends beginning every message with a joke. Or even a few jokes, to lighten things up. And there are, after all, plenty of jokes that are clean enough to tell in church.

Some are short and satirical: “Politicians and diapers have one thing in common. They should both be changed regularly—and for the same reason.”

Or: “Television can insult your intelligence, but nothing rubs it in like a computer.”

And then there are riddles … like this one: “What’s faster than a speeding bullet?”

“A Scotsman with a coupon!”

Or … this one: “What’s the difference between God and Donald Trump?”

“God doesn’t think he’s Donald Trump!”

Truth to tell, it’s not all that easy to work jokes into a sermon … because, most often, the theme is anything but humorous. Take our gospel text as an example. Matthew, chapter five. The beginning of Jesus’ “Sermon on the Mount.”

In particular, we’re looking at the “beatitudes.” Ostensibly, these are about blessings … But really, they are somber, and serious, and full of the hard realities of life. When you hear the beatitudes—if you’re really listening to them—they kind of hit you in the gut, don’t they?

They knock the breath out of you—and not because you’re laughing so hard!

No. In the beatitudes, Jesus is speaking honestly and straightforwardly about what the life of a disciple is going to be like.

And here’s something I think is remarkable—especially considering how popular Jesus would become. He is delivering this sermon very early on in his ministry—right at the beginning of his career. To people who had felt distant and alienated from God, he was proclaiming the nearness of heaven’s kingdom.

He was, we assume, trying to convince people to come and follow him. Yet, in one of his first sermons, he tells his would-be followers how hard it’s going to be.

Right up front, he lays it all out, in plain language: being his disciple means accepting some pretty challenging realities.

To be sure, Jesus talks about his disciples being poor in spirit, and being people who mourn … but these are aspects of life that all people experience, disciples or not.

Then he talks about his followers hungering and thirsting after righteousness, being merciful and meek and pure in heart, being peacemakers. Now that stuff is challenging—but it’s also noble. Most would see these as honourable and admirable ideals—even if somewhat counter-cultural.

But then, Jesus gets down to the final beatitudes. And what he says here should cause anyone to think twice. Because what he says is: “Blessed are those who are persecuted for righteousness’ sake, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven” (Matt. 5:3).

And, “Blessed are you when people revile you and persecute you and utter all kinds of evil against you falsely on my account. Rejoice and be glad, for your reward is great in heaven, for in the same way they persecuted the prophets who were before you” (Matt. 5:11-12).

Nothing about that is funny, or lighthearted. But Jesus says this will be the lot of his disciples.

Yes, you will be blessed … but first, you will be persecuted and reviled. First, people will utter all kinds of evil against you falsely. Now, that’s not very funny. It’s far from comedic. But there is a certain foolishness about it.

It’s foolish (isn’t it?) to think that blessings come to those who are poor in spirit, mourning, meek, merciful, and pure. It’s foolish to think that those who are persecuted, reviled and lied about, will be blessed.

It’s foolish to link blessings with these things—isn’t it? And it’s foolish to think that anyone would want to follow Jesus, knowing that all these negatives come along as baggage.

Who would want to be Jesus’ disciple, when that means you’re going to be persecuted and reviled? When that means people will utter all kinds of slander against you?

Knowing all that, you’d have to be a fool to follow Jesus … wouldn’t you? And yet, that’s exactly what the apostle Paul commends to us, in our reading from First Corinthians.

Paul tells us that God makes foolish the wisdom of the world. And that the foolishness of God is true wisdom. He says: “the message about the cross is foolishness to those who are perishing—but to us who are being saved, it is the power of God” (1 Cor. 1:18).

And what is at the heart of this divine foolishness?

“… we proclaim Christ crucified, a stumbling block to Jews and foolishness to Gentiles, but to those who are the called, both Jews and Greeks, Christ the power of God and the wisdom of God. For God’s foolishness is wiser than human wisdom, and God’s weakness is stronger than human strength” (1 Cor. 1:23-25).

I think that—in the beatitudes—Jesus is making the same point. In fact, I think Paul is echoing Jesus’ words from the Sermon on the Mount. According to Paul, the salvation of the world comes from the foolishness of a man dying on a cross. He says that “Christ crucified” is the power that turns everything upside down.

According to Paul, it is the very wisdom of God that allows Christ to die upon the cross, to give life to the world. This is what confers blessing upon those who are poor in spirit, blessing upon those who are mourning their dead, blessing upon those who are persecuted and reviled for Jesus’ sake.

It does seem bizarre, doesn’t it? It’s no wonder the world labels God’s plan as foolishness.

Many people today laugh at God’s wisdom. They scoff, as if it were some kind of big, cosmic joke. Some even call it a cruel joke!

But, Paul says, to those who have been called—to us who are being saved—the message of the cross is not foolishness. No. It is the very power of God for salvation. And that is the power that God offers to us. That is the blessing that God gives to us.

It is the message of the cross—the proclamation of Christ crucified—that speaks to us, and calls to us, and draws us to the foot of Jesus’ cross, where all the negatives in life die.

On the cross, all of our pain and suffering and persecution and rejection—all of our mourning and grieving—dies!

Our old lives, our old selves—we die along with Christ. But then we are raised along with him, also. And in him, we are resurrected as new people—as “new creatures” in Christ. That’s what we celebrate every Sunday morning.

Every week, we gather to celebrate the utter foolishness of God—to celebrate the fact that, hey, the joke’s on us!

What the world sees as the foolishness of God is actually wisdom beyond human comprehension.

The weakness of God—the Son of God, dying on the cross—is actually the power of God for salvation.

The sacrifice of Christ has created new life—and eternal life—for those who belong to him.

And while that may not seem funny … while that may not leave you in stitches … I hope that this is what you will remember most from this sermon:

  • God does not call us to be wise; and, in fact,
  • God does not care whether the world regards us as clever.

No. Whoever we are, God calls us. God calls us to become “fools for Christ”—even if that means we will be persecuted, and rejected, and reviled.

We are called to grab hold of God’s foolishness—the cross of Jesus Christ—and never let go!

Why? Because that is his power for salvation. That is the only message we are commissioned to preach and teach and live … “Christ crucified, the power of God and the wisdom of God.”

We are called to proclaim this foolishness. Why? Because, through it, we are really and truly blessed.

Remember: you do not need a parachute in order to go skydiving. You only need a parachute to skydive twice!

Jesus is our parachute, my friends. Cling to him tight. Amen.

BORN TO FISH

Epiphany 3

TEXT: Matthew 4:12-23 and 1 Corinthians 1:10-18

As he walked by the Sea of Galilee [Jesus] saw two brothers, Simon, who is called Peter, and Andrew his brother, casting a net into the lake—for they were fishermen. And he said to them, “Follow me, and I will make you fish for people.” (Matthew 4:18-19)

Back near the turn of the century, when I was in Montréal training for pastoral ministry, I had several classmates from Newfoundland. One of them had actually been—for most of his life—a fisherman. He came from a place that had been a fishing village for some 300 years.

Often—perhaps while sharing a meal in the college cafeteria, or a bit of dessert in one of the cafés or bistros near the McGill campus—my friend would tell me about his home, and about the joys and perils of being a commercial fisherman.

This was fascinating stuff to hear—especially for a Manitoba-bred prairie boy such as I am.

My classmate painted for me the most vivid word-pictures of violent storms at sea—of breaking nets and threatening reefs, dangerous shoals and rogue waves. All in all, I came away with the impression that the North Atlantic is not the friendliest ocean.

Yet, despite all the risks, the fishermen of Newfoundland continued to ply their trade (at least, until the cod fishery collapsed in the 1990s).

And some of them still do. Generation after generation, they have gone out to sea in their little boats—and they have found and caught an incredible abundance of fish.

Of course, the fishing industry is not what it used to be. Some species of fish are in decline; others are simply not as profitable. But the fishermen of Newfoundland have known hard times before, and they have survived. For the most part, the ones who have been born to fish, continue to fish.

And most of these fishers, even when they have passed the age when other people retire—and even when they themselves have sold their boats or passed them along to their children …

Well, they continue to fish—at least part-time—and they continue to go to where the fishermen gather. They go to the bait sheds and the boat yards. They help mend nets, and they drink coffee boiled on small wood stoves … and perhaps take a nip of that other stuff which warms you …

And there they tell stories about life on the open sea:

  • stories about the times when the nets came up empty, trip after trip after trip;
  • stories about the times when the boats had barely ventured out towards the Grand Banks and their nets were full to bursting;
  • stories about storms and terror;
  • stories about the ocean when it is smooth as glass, and the stars and the moon shine so brightly that it seems almost like daylight.

When Christ called his first disciples, he set them a task: the task of being fishers—fishers of people.

Simon Peter and Andrew—and later, two other brothers, James and John—could relate to the image, even if they didn’t understand exactly what Jesus meant by it. They were already fishers. Like the fishers in Newfoundland, their families had been at it for generations.

They were born to it—and they lived to do it—until their dying day. They knew that, in the end, fishers fish—no matter what. And they knew that—whether it be for salmon, or cod, or mackerel, or trout, or even for people—fishing takes hard work, and it takes thought, and it takes prayer. And they knew that there is no life like it.

“Follow me”, Jesus said, “and I will make you fish for people.”

Today—even if we live in a land-locked place like Alberta, as I do, now—we are called to do exactly the same thing. As followers of Jesus, that is our vocation.

We, ourselves, have longed to know the nearness of the Kingdom of Heaven. We, ourselves, have heard and seen the good news of that Kingdom’s coming. We, ourselves, have turned away from the things that destroy life and embraced the one who came to rescue us.

That is the message we carry—and that is the message we are called to share with others. And that message is more than simply bait—it is wonderful, life-saving news.

The Bible speaks often of how—when we decide to follow Jesus—we are made over. It says we become a “new creation.” It says we are—in a spiritual way—“born again.”

And when we experience this “second birth,” we discover that we are born to be fishers—fishers of people. It’s the same thing Jesus did—in Galilee and in Samaria; in Jordan and Judea; and in Jerusalem. And it’s what we are called to do, wherever we find ourselves.

There are a lot of different ways to fish. You can use a net, or you can use a rod and lure. You can angle for trout or trawl for cod—or you can set out traps for lobster. But what all these fishing methods have in common are purpose and action—the actual doing of things to achieve that purpose.

Our purpose—our mission—is to catch people with the love that God has given us. Our purpose is to bring those people to Jesus—the one who is the owner and the captain of our boat.

What does this kind of fishing look like?

It looks like forgiveness—forgiving our enemies; blessing those who curse us; loving those who hate us.

It looks like compassion—healing others even when we ourselves are wounded; feeding others even when we have little to offer; doing justice, and loving mercy, and all the while walking humbly with our God and testifying to His power and His goodness.

Those are some of the ways we can fish for people; those are some of the ways we can become the fishers Jesus has promised to make us.

James and John, Simon Peter and Andrew—they were boat fishermen, and part of a crew. And they, like all the fishers on every boat in Newfoundland, received a share of the value of the catch.

But you know, in the Kingdom of Heaven—and in the Church, which is the boat of Christ in this world—the fishermen not only receive a share of the catch; the catch itself begins to fish!

The catch itself begins to multiply.

There is a miracle happening here. We who were fish are turned into fishermen. We who were lost and seeking to find a home become guides for others, bringing them to our true and eternal home. We who needed blessings are now able to share the greatest of all blessings—the blessing of knowing Jesus and the new life he gives.

The great miracle here is the miracle of transformation—the miracle of God doing through us what we cannot do on our own, the miracle of small things becoming great.

In his First Letter to the Corinthians (1:10-18), the apostle Paul writes to the crew of the good ship Corinth. He writes to the crew of that boat of Christ Jesus in that place, to remind them of a simple and important fact.

He reminds them that they were not called to form the “Peter Group” or the “Apollos Party” or to become the disciples of Paul. They were not called to become part of an elite association. They were not called to become spiritual superstars and celebrities in their own right.

No. They were called by Peter, and by Apollos—and by Paul, himself—to follow Jesus, and to make Jesus the captain of their souls and the master of their destiny.

Paul writes to the Corinthians to remind them of their calling and of their mission. And in the rest of that letter, he tells them that everyone in the crew is important to getting the job done; that everyone has a role to play if the fish are to be caught.

He writes to them to remind them that the central fact of our faith is the cross—and that while that cross is foolishness to those who are perishing, it is the power of God to those who are being saved.

That is the truth with which we are equipped by Christ as we, his church—his crew—set forth day by day to fish for people.

It is wonderful to be able to show and share with someone the fact that God is eady and able to help them. It is wonderful to be part of a crew that works to demonstrate God’s love to those in need. It is wonderful, and it is thrilling. And, at times, it is dangerous, exhausting work.

Our little boat can get badly tossed about in the storms of life. And our nets can come up empty many, many times before we get a big strike. And when the nets come up full … Well, then we have to strain and struggle to haul them in. But—as fishermen of all kinds know—there is nothing better than doing what you have been born to do.

Christians are born to fish. We are born to share the good news. We are born to bring people to our captain and into his boat—into his Kingdom, so that they may know the love we know and receive the life that we ourselves are receiving: the life that is stronger than death.

JESUS CALLING

TEXTS: Isaiah 49:1-7 and John 1:29-42

[The Lord] says, “It is too light a thing that you should be my servant to raise up the tribes of Jacob and to restore the survivors of Israel; I will give you as a light to the nations, that my salvation may reach to the end of the earth.” (Isaiah 49:6)

When Jesus turned and saw them following, he said to them, “What are you looking for?” They said to him, “Rabbi” (which translated means Teacher), “where are you staying?” He said to them, “Come and see.” (John 1:38-39a)

Did you notice that both of the Scriptures for today share a common theme? It’s the theme of “calling.” It’s the idea of being “called.”

The reading from Isaiah begins with words about being called—about being set apart by God. And that fits right in with the gospel lesson, where Jesus calls his first disciples. John the Baptist points to Jesus and says, “Look, here is the Lamb of God.”

On hearing this, two of John’s disciples decide to check out this Jesus guy—and they wind up abandoning John and going off with Jesus, instead.

But that seems to be the very thing John intended. Anyway, this call—the call of these first two disciples—is noteworthy.  Here is a glimpse of what it’s usually like to be called by God.

Yes. “Called by God.” When we hear that phrase, we usually think about accountable ministers, don’t we? You know. Pastors. Priests. Diaconal ministers. Evangelists. Missionaries. We tend to conceive of someone being “called” in terms like those Isaiah used.

The Lord called me before I was born,


   while I was in my mother’s womb he named me.

He made my mouth like a sharp sword,


   in the shadow of his hand he hid me;

he made me a polished arrow,


   in his quiver he hid me away.

And he said to me, “You are my servant,


   Israel, in whom I will be glorified.” (Isaiah 49:1b-3)

In other words, we think of a “called” person as being told by God to do some specific thing—and usually a rather significant thing! When we speak about someone being “called,” we generally mean some kind of special service—usually full-time and professional, and almost always within the institutional church.

And that’s a comfortable way of looking at things, because it shields us from any personal challenge when we hear the Bible talk about Christ calling people to follow him. We can listen to the gospel story and neatly separate what happened to them from what’s going on with us.

“After all, they were called! But we’re just ordinary folks.” So we’re safe from all that “call” business. It’s about somebody else.

However, this whole way of looking at—and looking for—a call from God as a summons to a specific job or task really sort of misses the point. Certainly, there is such a thing as a special call to a specific ministry or type of service. But that’s not usually what the Bible means when it talks about being called. That is not what’s going on in our gospel passage—and it is not what is usually going on with us, when God calls us.

Being ordained, or commissioned, or designated, or recognized—or being a missionary, or a monk, or something like that—is quite secondary to the real, central, call we each have from God. Those two followers of John the Baptist whom Jesus invited to “come and see” were called exactly as we are called. They were called to be disciples, just as we are called to be disciples. They were called to be disciples in their place and in their time—and for the sake of their generation.

Consider what this means. It means that Jesus’ call to Andrew and the other disciple is like the call of Christ to each of us—and to all of us.

In his first encounter with them, Jesus did not call them to carry out a particular task or to fill a particular role. Instead, he invited them into relationship. He did not say, “Do this.” He said, “Come and see.” Only later did he give specific content and direction to where that might lead.

There’s a big difference between a call to a task and an offer of relationship.

To respond to a call for relationship—for intimacy—is a very different thing from contracting to do a piece of work. It’s like the difference between falling in love and landing a job. Setting out to do a job requires some clarity about what is involved. Not only that, but terms of employment are negotiable. A job has its limits, and you usually know what the finished product is going to look like.

To be called into relationship, however … to be called in love … that is something else entirely. That is an invitation to enter into a mystery. It’s a summons to move out—blindly—into uncharted waters.

When Jesus says, “Follow me,” he is calling us first of all unto himself. Following Jesus means knowing him intimately and sharing his life. That’s the important thing. Everything else is left behind; everything else becomes secondary.

Now, if we look at Jesus’ call from the perspective of what’s left behind … Well, that is a call to repentance. But if we see that same call from the perspective of what comes next, then it’s a call to seek Jesus above all else. It’s an invitation to get to know him better, and to make our relationship with him the central focus of our lives.

When we are called—and we are called, each and every one of us—Jesus simply asks us to abide with him for a season: not going anywhere, not doing anything. It’s a call to find out where Jesus lives, and to spend some time living there. To be sure, eventually this will lead us somewhere. But we won’t know where, right away—and maybe not for a very long while.

This is why a sense of call can be as frightening and frustrating as it is inspiring and exciting. We might know something very important is going on—something that involves us. And that creates a sense of urgency. Immediately, we begin looking around for an assignment. We want some great thing to do! After all, if something is important, it has to produce … right?

But … instead of that … especially at the beginning, all we are asked to do is get to know Jesus a little bit better. It’s a call to listen, and it’s a call to wait. It’s a time to imitate the psalmist, a time to “listen to what the Lord God is saying” (Psalm 85:8). We need that first. We need that most.

That’s what those first disciples did. They stayed close to Jesus for a while. They learned what they could and came to know him better. Then—admittedly, long before they thought they were ready—then Jesus gave them things to do. For some, these tasks were dramatic. For others, the tasks were quite mundane.

Listen: the call of Christ will always, in one form or another, find expression in ministry. It is ministry in which we all must participate—but the call comes first. There can be no real, abiding, and sustaining ministry apart from a relationship with Jesus. To put it another way, there can be no Christian discipleship without Christ.

Each one of us is called to be a disciple. If we try to ignore that call, it will haunt us. That call will track us down. It will disrupt our sleep. It will whisper in our ears at the worst possible times. It will grow stronger, and weaker, and stronger again. It may seem to go away … but it always comes back. Because, finally, it is our Lord who calls us to himself. He calls us into life. He calls us into struggle and sacrifice. He calls us into joy—and into real and lasting peace.

It’s a call Jesus makes to each and every one of us. So, please … don’t let it go to voicemail. Pick up the phone!

“He Must Increase”

Baptism of the Lord

TEXT: Matthew 3:13-17

Then Jesus came from Galilee to John at the Jordan to be baptized by him. —Matthew 3:13

Before Jesus officially began his public ministry, he had to take a couple of very important steps. The first was to be baptized.

Sometimes that troubles people. Why should Jesus have to be baptized?

The idea certainly bothered John the Baptist.

Matthew tells us that when Jesus came to be baptized, “John would have prevented him, saying, ‘I need to be baptized by you, and do you come to me?’” (Matthew 3:14).

We can understand John’s consternation. The Gospel of Luke tells us that John preached “a baptism of repentance for the forgiveness of sins” (Luke 3:3).

Since Jesus was without sin—and therefore had nothing of which to repent—what purpose would his baptism serve? Why should someone who never sinned undergo a baptism for the forgiveness of sins? John knew of Jesus’ spotless character, and so at first he opposed Jesus’ request.

So why did Jesus ask John to baptize Him? Before suggesting an answer, perhaps it would help to recall something of John’s background and importance.

The Gospel of Luke tells us that Jesus and John were cousins. By his early thirties, John had emerged as a major national figure.

It’s worth noting that Josephus, the renowned Jewish historian, wrote more about John than he did about Jesus. Why? Because since the death of the prophet Malachi—a period of some 400 years—Israel had not heard from a genuine prophet of God … until John.

John shook a nation with his bold words and unusual actions, drawing huge crowds eager to hear him preach his uncompromising message of repentance and faith in the Messiah.

John came at a strategic time in human history, when the old covenant was about to roll into a new one, and when all the law and sacrifices were to be fulfilled in the life and ministry of one man—a man like no other who had ever walked the earth.

That man was Jesus of Nazareth. Yet at this point, John’s fame was much greater.

John, however, clearly knew his role. He was to pave the way and point people to Jesus, and he humbly accepted his role.

His motto in life was, “He must increase, but I must decrease” (John 3:30). He was content to speak as a herald of the coming King.

When John clearly understood Jesus to be the Messiah, he directed even his own disciples to start following him. Once he did that, he was ready to fade into obscurity. His role was to point people to Jesus and then step aside.

For all these reasons, Jesus proclaimed John to be the greatest prophet who ever lived. “I tell you,” Jesus said, “among those born of women no one is greater than John” (Luke 7:28).

None greater? How can that be? We know of no miracles that John performed. Unlike Moses, he never turned the Nile into blood. Unlike Elijah, he never called fire down from heaven. He never stopped the rain or raised a single person from the dead. He left behind no written record, like Isaiah did, and Jeremiah did.

So why would Jesus call him the greatest of prophets? Only one reason: his nearness and connection to Jesus. As God’s appointed herald of the Messiah, John had no equal among the prophets.

How many of us think of greatness in terms like these? Too many of us wonder how God can enrich our lives, make us feel better about ourselves, or help us achieve success in business. We ask what God can do for us to make us greater and better.

John had a very different attitude. He constantly asked himself, “What can I do to prepare people for the coming of the Messiah? How can I direct them to him? How can I decrease and he increase?”

John’s godly character and unique mission help explain why Jesus came to his cousin to be baptized.

For a long time, John had been preparing the people to receive the coming Messiah; at the baptism of Jesus, he would publicly identify him as God’s Anointed One.

Jesus also was baptized because he had come into the world to identify with the human race. So it was that he who was without sin submitted to a baptism designed for sinners. “Let it be so now,” he told John, “for it is proper for us in this way to fulfil all righteousness” (Matthew 3:15).

When the day finally came for Jesus to make his very public stand, John welcomed him into the waters of the Jordan River.

As Jesus prayed, “the heaven was opened, and the Holy Spirit descended upon him in bodily form like a dove. And a voice came from heaven, ‘You are my Son, the Beloved; with you I am well pleased.’” (Luke 3:21-22).

In this way, John found true greatness before God and with all humanity—and his life stands as an example to us.

May we adopt John’s philosophy of life as well! May Christ increase, and may we decrease. If we really lived like that, who knows how it would affect others for their good?

May the Word of God burn in our hearts as we, too, prepare the way for the Lord.